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If thou uncommon merit haft,

Yet fpurn'd at Fortune's door, man; A look of pity hither caft,

For Matthew was a poor man.

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That paffeft by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart; For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canft throw uncommon light, man;
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise,
For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at Friendship's facred ca'
Wad life itself refign, man;
Thy fympathetic tear maun fa',
For Matthew was a kind man!

If

If thou art ftaunch without a ftain,
Like the unchanging blue, man;

This was a kinfman o' thy ain,
For Matthew was a true man.

If thou haft wit, and fun and fire,
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ;

This was thy billie, dam, and fire,
For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggifh whingin fot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and forrow be his lot,

For Matthew was a rare man.

LAMENT

LAMENT

OF

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

ON THE

APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle

On every blooming tree,

green

And spreads her sheets o' daifies white

Out o'er the graffy lea:

VOL. II.

M

Now

A

Now Phoebus chears the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies ;

But nought can glad the weary wight

That faft in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;

The mavis mild wi' many a note,
Sings drowfy day to reft:

In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall oppreft.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;

The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the flae:

The meaneft hind in fair Scotland

May rove their fweets amang;

But

But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison ftrang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly rafe I in the morn,

As blythe lay down at e'en:

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And I'm the fov'reign of Scotland,

And mony a traitor there;

Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

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And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My fifter and my fae,

Grim vengeance, yet, fhall whet a fword
That thro' thy foul fhall gae: CO
The weeping blood in woman's breaft

Was never known to thee ;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

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